Always There
by rivalshipping
Summary: To fill a prompt at the BBC Sherlock meme: When Sherlock is sleepy and too out of it to go to bed himself, John carries him. In different ways. Sometimes piggy back, sometimes bridal style, sometimes dragging him along the floor, sometimes over the shoulder. Whichever way, John is always there to carry Sherlock off to bed. Lots of fluff and love. Rated for blood.


**This was fun to write.**

* * *

"Get up, you lazy sod," John murmured good-naturedly, practically dragging Sherlock into their flat and shoving him onto the sofa. It was nearing midnight and they had just got in from a case; John, still running on adrenaline, Sherlock, dead on his feet. "I can't do everything for you."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise in response, his eyes closing of their own accord and his head lolling back. John sighed, rubbed at his eyes, and proceeded to pull off Sherlock's shoes. "You should sleep during cases, you arse. Maybe then you won't be so exhausted when they finish."

"It was the husband," Sherlock offered unhelpfully, raising an emphatic index finger before dropping it back to the sofa cushions.

The doctor rolled his eyes and sighed again. "You've said." He leaned Sherlock forward to pull off his jacket, careful not to let him fall, and then pushed him backward again. "We've got to get you to bed, Sherlock. Get up."

"The husband," Sherlock slurred.

"Christ." John, against the loud protests of his aching body, bent over and slipped his hands under Sherlock's thighs, lifting him into his arms. A soft, disagreeing moan from Sherlock was muffled by his jumper. "Don't you whinge to me when I'm carrying you, Sherlock."

Getting Sherlock into his room was harder than John imagined it would be. He had to peer around Sherlock's dead weight to watch the floor and the ever-increasing piles of things they had laying about, curse quietly when his foot hit the coffee table, and open the door with the back of his hand to avoid dropping Sherlock ungracefully to the hard floor. "John," Sherlock mumbled into his jumper, his arms finding their way around John's neck and pulling him tighter.

"Sherlock," John replied, lovingly mocking him in a faux-sleepy tone. "You're going to need to brush your teeth twice as long tomorrow, you nutter, since I'm not trusting you with a toothbrush in your mouth tonight. I can't understand how you can be so manically awake for five days when you're like this at the end of it."

"Manic," Sherlock repeated, smiling softly when his back hit the familiar cold sheets of his bed. "Manic... Maniac..."

John couldn't help but find it endearing, really. Sherlock was like a child when he was tired, even his incredible hard drive of a brain bowing to the firm hand of fatigue. "You are a maniac, love." John laid a kiss on his cheek, brushing his inky curls away from his face. "I'll wake you for dinner."

* * *

Sherlock touched his forehead with a curious expression, unsurprised when his fingers were covered in red. "Are you hurt, John?" he asked, his eyes taking on a sort of dreamy haze, and attempted to turn in John's direction. Everything was darker than before, as if he were seeing it through sunglasses.

"I'm fine." There was quick movement at his side, and then John was tenderly blotting at the spot where the murderer's pistol struck him, his wadded white vest staining quickly. "Let me see your eyes, love. Look at me."

The detective could only comply, trying to pull his thoughts back together. "Lestrade... Lestrade was right behind us, yes? He was caught, yes?" At John's nod, he relaxed and closed his eyes, his transport begging him to sleep.

He was shaken awake, his vision filled with John's worried gaze. "Stay with me, Sherlock. Please don't sleep. Not now."

A bright light replaced John's deep blue eyes and Sherlock winced, his head pounding. "Shut it off!" he said, irritated and trying to move away from it, but the shift made him dizzy. "John, please."

The light went out and the blotting stopped. "I don't think you have a concussion, Sherlock, but I'm going to do the sleep procedure anyway. Do you know where you are?"

"Glentworth Street. Our flat is two streets over, John. My name is Sherlock Holmes, I am thirty years old, I was born on January sixth, now can we _please_ go home?" He stood up suddenly, and almost immediately fell, overcompensating for his lost balance.

John, of course, was right beside him, holding him up. "Jesus, Sherlock, stop. Wait a moment and-"

"No moments, John." Sherlock couldn't believe himself: his eyes were burning with tears, his head was still oozing blood, he couldn't see straight to walk, he couldn't stand up to walk anyway, he was cold, he was wet, he was tired, and he just wanted to _go home_.

"I've been living with you a year now, Sherlock. I know that tone." John's smile was warm without a trace of condescension. "Don't writhe, all right?"

Sherlock knew what was coming, but he couldn't help a moment of disorientation and panic when his feet were swept from under him and he was supported only by John's arms. He pressed his lips together and wrapped his arms around John's neck, suddenly embarrassed. "Home?" he asked, in a voice so pitiful he winced.

"Home," John replied. "I reckon you deserve some rest." John had the foresight and mindfulness to carry Sherlock away from the police cars and ambulance and instead straight to their flat, cutting through an alleyway for time.

Sherlock was reluctant to be put down so that John could open the door to the flat, and was close to saying so, but John did a rather impressive maneuver that only required the use of one hand and opened the door, careful not to bump Sherlock's head on the way in.

Sherlock waited until he was sitting up against the headboard of his bed, his head wound being tended by John, to lean forward and capture John's lips in a desperate kiss, fisting his hands in the front of John's bloodstained jumper to pull him closer. "Thank you," he whispered against John's lips, his breath shaky and uneven.

John's hand was in his hair, gently stroking the dampened curls at the nape of his neck. "No need, Sherlock. Please don't antagonise murderers anymore."

"I can't promise anything," he answered, and they both dissolved into giggles.

* * *

John found Sherlock asleep one morning, his head on the pages of an anatomy textbook and his fingers still around a beaker of something blue. The doctor sighed sharply, pried the beaker away, and slammed his hand on the table.

"Occipital!" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up straight and looking around wildly. "Oh, John, don't scare me like-"

He was cut off by being unceremoniously dumped out of his chair and onto the floor. It took him a second to get his bearings, sleep still clouding his cognitive processes, but by the time he did, John was dragging him by the back of his collar to his bedroom. "John, let go!"

"I told you to go to bed last night, Sherlock. You said you'd be done in a few minutes!"

It took a moment for Sherlock to remember any of that. "It was a few minutes," he insisted, trying to gain purchase on the floor with his hands, but John was a lot stronger than he looked. "I'm so tired, John, just let me get to bed!"

"You wouldn't be tired if you'd listened to me!" Oh God, John was in a mood, Sherlock thought. What could he have possibly done, besides this of course, to cause it?

"I'm sorry, John, I'm bloody sorry! You've never been this upset over something as trivial as- _Oh_." Sherlock blinked, almost not noticing that John stopped walking. "Oh, John. I didn't mean to."

"You never do." John gave him a shove on the shoulder, and then stalked off into the kitchen, closing the book with a bang.

Sherlock fought his exhaustion, standing up and leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom for support. "It was an accident, John. Let me make it up to you. Please. I don't want to make two unhappy days in a row for you."

John glanced at him, putting down the kettle. "You have one chance, Sherlock, or so help me God, I will never carry you into your room again."

"Come." Sherlock opened his arms and beckoned with his thin fingers, a sleepy attempt at a leer on his face. "My first belated gift will be several fantastic rounds of birthday cum makeup sex."

* * *

"Sherlock, no. I can't carry you to bed; I'm busy."

Sherlock made an unsatisfied sound, using John as leverage to stand up from his chair and leaning against his back. "It'll take one second," he murmured, his eyes refusing to stay open. "Just one little second. I promise."

"Walk yourself."

"Can't be arsed." Sherlock went still, and then leaned his weight more on John, pressing his thigh to John's hip. "Carry me."

John gave a long-suffering sigh and put down his tea, pressing the palm of his hand under Sherlock's knee. "Jump," he said, frowning. "I'm not going to do all the work."

It wasn't as comical as you'd think. Sherlock smiled, pushing himself up to wrap both of his legs around John's waist, and rested his chin on John's shoulder. The doctor leaned forward slightly to compensate for the weight imbalance. "Thank you, John," Sherlock mumbled, placing a short kiss on John's cheek.

"Whatever, you daft psychopath. You're lucky you don't eat, otherwise I definitely would not be able to lift you."

"Sociopath," Sherlock corrected, his bleary silver eyes fixed on the door to his bedroom. "Bring my phone, would you?"

John shook his head, walking purposefully into Sherlock's room and turning around to drop him onto his bed. "If you're tired, you won't be using it, Sherlock."

"Posterity," Sherlock replied, curling up on his side and closing his eyes. John frowned at him for a moment, then patted his shoulder and pulled his duvet up over him.

"Posterity my arse. Get your own phone when you wake up."

Sherlock's hand shot out to grab John's wrist and hold him fast. "Stay."

John narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Sherlock, I got a full night's sleep. You stay."

"I'll get up again if you don't."

"Then why in blazes did I carry you here?"

"Because I love you." Sherlock rolled onto his back, leaving more than enough room for John between him and the edge of the bed. "Stay with me."

John climbed in next to him, pulling Sherlock's head down and resting his cheek on his mass of loose curls. "So help me God, Sherlock, if you as much as sit up in the next six hours."

"Good afternoon, John," Sherlock replied, a beatific smile on his face. "Do try to sleep. You're awfully testy."


End file.
